


Butcher Blues

by Lordki



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Dunwall, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other, loose interpretation of canon lore, mostly an excuse to write street gangs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 05:49:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10915605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lordki/pseuds/Lordki
Summary: Scenes from Slackjaw's younger days, based on Crowley's letter.





	Butcher Blues

I.

They knew him first as “Boy.”

When he was born, the other courtesans took him in. They swaddled him and carried him away from his dead mother, and banded together when the Old Madam demanded he be left on the shore. The girls refused to abandon him. They had loved his mother. He was innocent, and he smiled up at them, and they could not bring themselves to give him up. They did not leave their quarters for days, and the Old Madam's iron will faltered, and the boy was allowed to live.

There had been other children, of course, and would be again. The boy's father had paid good money to make sure the baby would never breathe, but he was soon dead across the sea, and the Old Madam figured the child could do no harm to a dead man. So the boy was raised by the courtesans, a constant presence underfoot.

The brothel was in a dark part of town, and though it saw its share of wealthy clientele, the girls wore their stockings threadbare and the wallpaper never seemed to stay upright for long. The boy spent his earliest days shut away in secret bedrooms, away from the gasping business of the place and content with rough wooden toys. His imagination supplied rich fields and faraway seas, adventures like those the women would read him as he fell asleep.

A few of the other children, older and colder, were jealous of him. He was the beaming center of attention, so bright that some of the regulars would greet him if they saw him peeking around a corner. The older children did not play with him. They did not play at all anymore, save with knives and cards, but the boy could not have known this and was often lonely.

At night, he would lie awake, listening to the soft snores of his caretakers and wondering if he might someday be allowed to see the world beyond. He tried to sneak outside every so often, only to be met with a harsh warning or a cruel word.

One time, he tried to escape into the back alley. He only wanted to see the streets where the other children were, to see the world beyond the paper-thin gloss of the brothel. He made it to the end of the alley, where a wide cobbled street waited, before one of the girls ran after him. She was half-dressed, corset partly unlaced and shoes forgotten. She grabbed him hard by the arm and dragged him back. He was angry, and too shocked to speak. None of the women had ever hurt him before, and her fingers were bruising the skin of his arm. When she finally turned to look at him, her eyes were wet.

“Don't you ever-- _ever--_ go out there alone. You come tell us.”

“But Anna,” the boy mumbled, “I wanna see the city.”

“No, you don't,” she shook her head, “They will eat you alive out there, love. They will eat you alive.”

Then she began to cry in earnest, wrapping him in her arms and kissing his hair over and over. He cried as well, if only because he had never seen an adult cry before. He was frightened, and felt guilty. It would be another year before he tried to leave the brothel again.

Later, when he was older, he was “Boy! Bring a fresh washbasin!” and “Boy, go and tell Andrea her last appointment is here.” He was not yet old enough to be petulant, but he was old enough to wonder where the other children had gone. They had disappeared one by one, it seemed, over the course of a year. He caught snatches of hushed conversation, whispered behind doors too thin to hold secrets. He heard words beyond keyholes:

“-- taken to the Abbey--”

“-- Outsider only knows who they've joined up with. Some of the Slaughterhouse gangs--”

“-- the Navy's little better than mercenaries now--”

And soon the boy was the only one left. He worked the same hours as the girls, cleaning and doing whatever menial task needed doing. As he did so, he began to resent the halls he walked each day. He would ask about the outside world, only to be hushed or ignored. He was slowly learning what the girls had tried to keep from him, that the brothel was nothing but a gilded prison.

He began to steal things from the patrons. Single coins here and there, a button or a watch fob if he was feeling daring. He tore up a floorboard in the attic where he slept and made a cloth cradle for his savings. Within a year, he judged that he'd saved enough to get started.

He left at night. The boy thought about leaving a mark, even just an 'X' in the wall. Something to be remembered by. He settled on a final long glance around the room. Three generations of women were sprawled over the beds and tangled up on wide pillows. They slept curled around each other in protective, needy arches. The boy had belonged there, for the first part of his life. But he had made up his mind.

He wiped his eyes, fist pressing so hard that stars burst across his vision, and crept down the stairs. He unlocked the rear door and walked into the rainy night. He had nothing but his clothing and a tiny bundle of coins.

 

II.

The morning sun shone high over the river, signaling another in a series of clear days. The downriver docks were busy and full, merchant ships and Navy frigates crowding the harbor in various stages of preparation or unloading. There was a hum of noise underscoring the day, hammers against metal, feet traversing the planks of the docks, greetings shouted across tight crowds. The air smelled of salt, timber and oil. It was a good day to take to the water.

The boy sat in the shade of a wooden overhang halfway down the long wharf, watching the people and trying to look useful. There were other children scattered about, varied and ragged and waiting for a job.

They were a gang, of sorts; too young to be of any use to the real street gangs, too old to be considered orphans. They were all hungry. At night, they would pool their day's earnings to buy enough food to share. That had been the boy's idea. If they were seen buying food just often enough, no one near the docks would suspect how much they were stealing. The morning had been slow so far, as full crews and capable workmen swarmed the harbor. Dinner was an increasingly troublesome prospect.

“You there! Wharf rat!” bellowed a voice.

The boy glanced up the wharf and saw that the voice belonged to a Navy Officer, and that the man's meaty hand was pointed in his direction.

“Get the Captain's luggage! Hurry now!”

He leapt to his feet and ran down the docks, dodging shipping containers and the daily bustle of business. He arrived at the man's side, eyes downcast, and reached for the nearest sea chest.

“There's a good lad,” said a new voice, measured and firm, “and these two, if you don't mind.”

The boy dared to sneak a glance at the Captain, who was just now stepping forward to deposit another of his bags beside the sea chest. The man was tall, broad-chested and dressed in the proud blues of his uniform. His hair was a dark brown sweep, held in place by oils. He awarded the boy a tight-lipped smile, friendly but strained.

“Aye, sir,” said the boy, and flinched as the other officer raised a swift hand.

“I said move his luggage, not pester him,” the man seemed about to strike, but the Captain cleared his throat pointedly and the officer froze in place. He made a choked sound before lowering his hand, staring at the Captain the way a mouse might look at a cat.

“There's no need, Mr. Chase,” the Captain said instructively, and the other man turned an uncomfortable shade of red, “I think we can give the boy his orders without any undue violence.”

Chase sputtered a little in embarrassment, “Of course. Captain.”

The Captain turned back to the boy, and there was a hint of amusement in his steely eyes, “The Sarabelle. Tell the men to leave them beside the aft hatch. Come back and find me when you're done.”

The boy nodded and hefted the sea chest. He took it a few yards before realizing his arms were about to give out. He let out a low whistle and another boy appeared at his side, all lean muscle and shaggy hair. They lifted the chest and carried it to the ship, grunting with effort. In the shadow of the Sarabelle, the deckhands helped them wrap the chest in a rope net. The boys turned to leave as the Captain's luggage began its ascent.

“Hey, little Jacks,” called one of the sailors, leaning over the rail high above, “where to with this one?”

The boy's friend crossed his arms and shouted back, “We ain't all named Jack!”

“By the aft hatchway,” the boy said, and his friend elbowed him in the ribs.

“Thank you, Jack,” the sailor tipped his cap dramatically before disappearing behind the rail.

The boy led the way back to the docks, where he and his friend collected the other two bags. They carried the heavy canvas sacks and made sure they were safely aboard, all the while working in silence. As they walked back, the boy turned to his friend with a quizzical look.

“What?” the boy demanded, “You been lookin' daggers at me this whole time.”

“Nothin'.”

“It ain't nothin', neither. Come on and spit it out.”

“I don't know why you let 'em push us around,” his friend muttered, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, “I ain't called Jack.”

“Yeah,” the boy said, “well, not all of us got names, Crowley.”

“I do,” Crowley puffed out his chest a little as he walked.

“Ain't even your real name.”

“Is too! It's my real name, an' I don't wanna be Jack.”

“Fine,” the boy snapped, and a sharper sort of silence fell between them.

They reached the cityside end of the dock. Crowley hung back in case he had to make himself scarce. Not everyone liked having to pay two children when they'd spoken to one. The boy waited patiently as the Captain finished speaking to a group of sailors.

“I don't care if they answer to the Outsider himself, I won't lose another ship to second-rate pirates. We'll stop the bastards if it's--” the Captain noticed him and broke off abruptly, pausing to fish around in his pockets, “Ah, thank you, boy.”

He handed over a coin, then glanced at Crowley and handed over two.

“Thanks,” the boy said, uncomfortably aware that the entire crowd of sailors had turned their eyes on him. He caught sight of Chase's still-red face and took a step back, ready to leave.

“Keep yourself nearby,” the Captain told him, “and bring your friends. I'll be needing a few extra hands.”

The boy nodded.

One of the older men let out a polite cough, “Captain Havelock, the crew is perfectly--”

“The crew has their work cut out for them. That mess of thieves and drunkards you hired are going to rue the day they signed on.”

The boy turned on his heel, knowing by the drop in tone that he was no longer welcome. He moved confidently along the dock, bare feet tapping the sun-faded wood as Crowley fell into step beside him.

“What'd you get?” Crowley asked, craning his neck.

The boy held out Crowley's coin, “Enough for now.”

Crowley laughed as he grabbed the ten-piece coin, a carefree sound inspired by the possibility of fresh bread. He pushed his hair out of his eyes.

“Good job, Jackie Boy,” he sang mockingly, and the boy's face burned.

“Shut up,” the boy stuffed his own coin into his pocket, “don't say it like that.”

“No,” Crowley agreed in false sobriety, “gotta say it just like Sam does. Little Jack. Sounds like a song. Little Jack the Mudlark. Little Ja--”

“ _Shut up,”_ the boy growled, his hand clenching.

“Maybe we should just start callin' you Mudlark, that'd be a good one.”

It was only because he was still looking at the coin in his palm that Crowley did not see the boy's hand as it reached for his collar, or the fist flying toward his face. The punch hit him hard across the eye, and he stumbled backwards. He collapsed, knocking over a few bolts of sailcloth where they stood against a wooden pallet. He lay there, unmoving on the planks, and the crowd parted around them. A wave of murmurs echoed from the spot, but no one interfered.

The boy stood over, watching his dumbfounded friend sit up and grasp his own face. The boy had never hurt anyone before. He had never been so angry.

“Hey,” Crowley said groggily, holding his eye, “You...”

“You don't call me _nothin'_ ,” the boy said, his voice warped and in danger of cracking, “not Jack, not Mudlark, not nothin'.”

Crowley stared up at him like he had never seen the boy before. After a long moment, he finally nodded.

“I ain't _got_ a name, you hear me?” the boy shouted at him, and his eyes began to sting, “I ain't got a name!”

“Alright,” Crowley stumbled to his feet, one hand still wrapped around his coin, “alright, I won't do it again.”

The boy fought to catch his breath, and for the first time he saw the beginnings of fear in Crowley's eyes. He swallowed his anger and turned away, walking briskly toward the overhang where the other children were undoubtedly watching them. Crowley jogged behind him, not quite catching up.

“I won't do it again,” Crowley repeated, just loud enough for the boy to hear him.

“You gotta promise,” the boy said, despite an immediate feeling that promises were something only the younger children believed.

Crowley caught up, bobbing his head emphatically. His eye was already beginning to swell.

“Sure, I promise,” he said, “Whatever you say, boss.”

 

III.

 “You got a plan?”

“Yeah, I got a plan, you got a brain?”

“Real nice,” Crowley muttered, “while you're busy insultin' me, the Watch is gonna tear us to shreds.”

The boy opened his mouth to reply, but the rattle of a railcar overhead drowned out all other sound. He exchanged a heated glance with Crowley, but his friend simply shook his head and rubbed his eyes. The boy waited out the train, willing his vision to adjust to the darkness.

They were crouched behind a trash bin in a back alley just outside the Legal District, and they were in deep trouble. The boy had led a rag-tag group of young teenagers into a safehouse kept by one of the smaller neighborhood gangs. They had only just begun to pack the valuables and food into bags before someone tripped a wire and set off an alarm.

The boy had the presence of mind to grab his bag before he vaulted the window and bolted into the night, looking back only once to make sure Crowley was still following him. The other kids had their orders, and their own escape routes to take. He and Crowley had run across a City Watch patrol almost immediately, and they had been running ever since.

The Watch chased them deep into gang territory, and now they were practically on the front doorstep of the men and women they'd just robbed. Lights illuminated windows above as people awoke to the sounds of the chase and the blare of the distant alarm.

The railcar finally clattered away and the momentary silence was deafening by comparison. Shouts echoed through the alley. The boy barely dared to breathe, trying to make himself as small as he could while water from the cobblestones seeped into the legs of his trousers. Crowley was in a similar state only inches away, the back of one hand pressed to his mouth as footsteps rang along the street.

There was a shuffle of bootheels just beyond the dumpster, and Crowley flinched as someone began to rifle through the trash. Only the metal sides of the bin separated them as the Watch scoured the alley. For what seemed like hours, the guards boxed them in on all sides, searching every dark corner.

“Spread out!” came an authoritative voice, “They were right in front of us. We can't have lost them!”

Then, with several groans of frustration, the click of dress boots and the sheathing of swords could be heard. As the sounds of the search drew farther away, the boy stole a glance at his friend. Crowley was trying very hard to keep a straight face.

The boy felt the pull of laughter at the corner of his mouth, and stifled it as his chest grew tight. The City Watch moved to the far corners of the block, their distant voices agitated and nervous. Crowley began to shake, barely containing his laughter. The boy bit his lip to prevent himself making a sound.

Finally, the noises of the hunt died away, and the alley was silent once more. When enough time had passed, Crowley let out a whooping sound, gasping as he fell onto his hands and knees. His laugh was high-pitched and infectious, and the boy laughed along as adrenaline thundered his heart. Tears soon streamed from their eyes and Crowley's giggling was interrupted by hiccups. The boy reached out for Crowley's shoulder, and they balanced against each other.

“Ah, shit,” the boy breathed, coughing a little, “we gotta steal from the Watch next time.”

“ _They were right in front of us,_ ” Crowley wheezed, “Fuckin' priceless.”

They spent a few more minutes calming down before checking to ensure the street was clear. The musty alley was abandoned, the lights above extinguished. Only the patter of water dripping from gutters filled the night.

“Let's get back,” said Crowley, wiping his eyes, “we can follow the rails.”

They did so, moving in shadows and making as little noise as possible. Every so often, one of them would snort in laughter, and they'd have to stop to quiet down. They did not encounter a soul until they reached the agreed-upon meeting place, a creaky old building with boarded windows and locked doors. A sign across the front porch read _Condemned! Do Not Enter._

A face peered out from one of the first-floor windows, framed by rotting planks. The boy waved up at it. There was a bustle of activity inside the building as the boy mounted the front stairs. Crowley moved beside him.

“What was your plan, anyway?” Crowley asked.

“Huh?”

“You said you had a plan,” the cocky expression on Crowley's face slipped a little, “Did you not have a plan?”

“Nah,” the boy admitted, shooting Crowley a toothy smile as the front door was unlocked from within, “Plan was to run some more.”

“Oh. Great.”

The door swung open, and several young and hungry faces stared at them from the darkness. Each of them wore a look of total disbelief.

“You made it?” one of them asked, a lanky boy with straw hair and wide eyes, “We thought you was dead for sure.”

“Come on, now, Pike,” the boy made a show of being nonchalant as he handed the bag over, “Was I ever caught before?”

The blond boy shook his head, accepting the bag with a reverent sort of hesitation, “No, but we got away clean. You had the Watch after you. We heard 'em shoutin' all the way across the square.”

“Well, me an' Crowley shook 'em off.”

“How?” asked a tall girl, reaching for the bag and pulling it open. She craned to see its contents, waiting for the boy's instruction before touching anything within.

“Don't you worry about it,” Crowley said, “We got our ways.”

The boy barely caught himself before laughing, “Yeah, that's right. Secret ways.”

Crowley was unable to contain a low chuckle.

“What's in the bag?” asked an older girl from the back of the group.

“Got some food to share,” the boy abandoned his smile, reaching into the canvas sack and withdrawing a few packages of canned meat. He adopted the serious mannerisms the other kids had come to respect.

He was the closest thing they had to a leader. A few of them had followed him away from the docks when he'd moved into the city. They had been beggars for just a week, before they'd stolen enough to afford food. They migrated from block to block in the streets east of the river, squatting in abandoned property or taking shelter in scattered hostels and boarding houses.

As they'd picked up other kids, and lost a few along the way, the boy had found himself in charge. It was a wordless agreement between them all, reinforced by the few times any of the other kids dared to cross him. Those disputes had been settled quickly and violently. Anyone who wanted to eat knew better than to argue with the boy.

“Split 'em up,” he said, “Same as usual, youngest first. Try an' keep it even this time, I ain't breaking up another fight.”

He watched as the gaggle of kids passed the spoils among themselves, tins of meat and jars of preserves set aside as anything fresh was opened immediately. They ate quickly, using their fingers and pressing open containers to their faces. The boy moved into the open hall and sat down on the floor, leaning against the peeling wall. Eventually, Crowley brought him a tin of preserved fish and a status report.

“Others got a few trinkets an' such, we can pawn 'em downriver,” Crowley licked his hand, cleaning up the traces of his dinner, “Benny picked up some whiskey, Jamie nabbed a real nice little clock.”

The boy nodded, considering this news as he pulled out his boot knife and cracked open the tinned fish.

“Might wanna think of movin' on anyway,” Crowley continued, settling down beside the boy and letting out a contended sigh, “this part of town knows our faces.”

The tin came open with a crack, and the salty smell of preservative filled the air. Lost in thought, the boy speared a small fish on the end of his knife and turned it over in the dim candlelight.

“I tell you,” Crowley muttered, voice low so only the boy would hear him, “I'm gettin' sick of whale meat.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Maybe we could head down the canal, try takin' from the smugglers.”

“You got a death wish?” the boy raised an eyebrow.

Crowley let out a quiet huff, “Just an idea, boss.”

They fell into an amicable silence as the apartment slowly went silent around them. Their hunger satisfied for now, the kids curled themselves into corners and slept, knowing full well they'd have to wake before dawn to move on. The boy ate his preserved fish, the salty flesh drying out his tongue. He yearned wistfully for fresh fruit. A hard anger flared through him.

“We ain't gonna eat whale meat again,” he whispered forcefully.

Crowley started, having just begun to doze off, “What?”

“I said we're done with whale meat,” the boy turned to his friend, “we're gonna move downtown. Make a real start.”

Crowley blinked at him, “You mean...?”

“I mean we're joinin' up with somebody. I don't care who. We're gonna make a reputation for ourselves, and we're gonna get beds, an' a roof, an' real food.”

The hall was so quiet that the sounds of water washing down the gutters outside reached them in waves. Crowley's eyes were wide and shining.

“Some of the others won't like it,” he said slowly.

The boy leveled a stern glare at his friend, “They'll do as I tell 'em.”

Crowley nodded his understanding, eyes sweeping the ground between them. He watched the carpet for a long while, and the boy allowed him the time he needed. A muffled snoring began in the next room.

“I'm with you,” came the eventual answer.

“Just you wait, Crowley,” the boy murmured, “We're gonna be something in this city.”

 

IV.

 The boy, no longer a boy, stood outside a closed door, trying to disguise a shake in his left hand and tightening his fist around the bag in his right. He stared straight ahead at the door, tracing the grain of the wood and focusing on breathing in a steady rhythm. The next few minutes would be essential. By the end of this meeting, he would either be paid or be dead.

The inn was loud around him, the halls and lobbies below flooded with drunken revelers and gang members. The muscle belonged to Black Sally, the newest and flashiest of Dunwall's elite crime bosses. Black Sally's gang was celebrating their latest victory, a merchant ship they'd raided in port right under the Hatters' noses. Whiskey and wine flowed liberally downstairs, and song carried from behind the closed door. The boy was growing increasingly nervous.

A rumor had been spreading through the criminal underground that Sally was trying to weed out a mole in her organization. The boy, eager for work and desperate to feed the ten or so mouths who relied on him, had taken it upon himself to hang around Sally's business fronts. He had discovered the culprit's identity easily enough. He was ready to present his findings. The men at the door had sized him up, glancing over the disheveled young man with measured skepticism. He had waited for an hour, hovering awkwardly in the ground floor lobby, before he was told Sally would see him.

Now that he saw the joyous atmosphere of Sally's headquarters, however, he had to fight a growing foreboding. Tonight was not the night to bring the boss bad news. He lifted his trembling left hand and raked it over his hair.

“This one's scrawny,” one of Sally's men said directly into the boy's ear, “What does he want with Sally?”

“Like it's any of our business,” answered another. The boy did not turn around, but he could hear a curious crowd gathering just behind him, clogging the stairs beyond and peering at him with detached amusement.

The door opened from the inside, and a large man waved them in.

“Hurry up,” he said to no one in particular.

The boy felt his eyes widen even as he struggled to maintain his outer cool. The sight before him was awe-inspiring. Had he not promised himself he would remain aloof and collected, he might have let out an incredulous laugh.

Sally's office was situated in the royal suite of the old inn. The walls were lined in lush fabric and cushioned lounges, the floor littered with pillows. The massive bed had been shoved to one side, nestled against the far wall and covered by a crimson canopy. Tables held plentiful food and the occasional spoil of war: a City Watch saber on a pedestal, a painting in a decorative frame, a golden mirror. Across the room, a tall armchair, patched and faded green velvet, stood aloft on an overturned bureau like a throne. The boy felt a renewed sense of purpose. Sally was glaringly, fabulously rich.

“Boss,” the man who'd opened the door called across the room, “this is the kid.”

The boy felt a spark of indignation. He was hardly a 'kid,' already out of his teens and deadly in his own right. He reminded himself that he was here to grease palms, not to start a brawl. Judging by the assembled company, he would lose any fight he dared to pick. He noted a crowd of gang members and tough characters, and a few City Watch uniforms mingling as well. It seemed Sally had friends in high places.

“Bring him in,” said a woman's voice, clear and direct, and the boy scanned the faces around him to find its source.

To his surprise, the figure who stepped apart from the crowd was young, barely older than he was. She was pale and freckled, her frame short and well-built. The black hair that was her namesake cascaded around muscular shoulders. She stopped in the center of the room as a hush fell, and the boy found himself shoved roughly forward. Sally crossed her arms as he righted himself. His skin prickled as all eyes turned to him.

“Boys downstairs say you know something about my loose-lipped problem,” she said flatly, full lips curving in an ironic smirk.

The boy was unsure if it was his cue to speak. He had not expected Sally to conduct such sensitive business in front of an audience. He realized with a sinking sensation that the move was calculated on Sally's part. If he proved useful, she'd be seen to have influence outside her own circles. If he proved a liar, she could gut him on the spot and retain the fearful respect of her company. He drew in a breath to calm himself, avoiding Sally's piercing green eyes.

“Well?” she demanded.

“I found out who your snitch was.”

Sally's gaze was hawk-like and unreadable. The boy felt a heat spreading over his cheeks. He tried to focus on her lips, unwilling to show weakness by glancing away.

“Tell me,” she said.

“Fella by the name a' Mallory,” the boy answered bluntly, as his pulse began to rush. The words were out in the open now. There would be no turning back.

In the ensuing hush, a few murmurs rippled through the corners of the room. Sally grazed a hand over her mouth, then took a few careful steps closer. She stared up at him, and the hostility etched on her features was enough to send panic darting through the boy's bones.

“And why,” she said in a low tone, “should I believe that?”

“I--”

“Listen, _boy,_ ” she spat, one hand playing over a knife at her waist, “I have known Mallory for five years and he's never crossed me once. You're gonna need more than a name you heard in an alley if you want to live another ten minutes.”

He set the bag down at his feet and held up his hands, palms open. He nodded toward his breast pocket, “I got proof.”

“Let's see it.”

The boy reached into his jacket, withdrawing a few slips of paper. He handed them over to Sally without a word. She snatched them from him. As she read them, an expression of pure disgust worked its way over her face. She looked up at him.

“Where did you get these?”

“Took the receipts from his pocket,” the boy said honestly, “picked up the note from the Watch.”

He tried his best to avoid eye contact with any of the blue uniforms in the room. Sally resumed her study of the papers, tapping one foot in agitation. She read each of them several times before holding them out at arm's length, hand extended to one side. Another young woman, tattooed and scowling, took them and faded back into the crowd. Sally awarded the boy an appraising look.

“How'd you find out about it?” she asked.

The boy realized she was giving him the floor. He licked his lips.

“I noticed him comin' and goin' from the Dale Street place. Always left twice, took the same routes. Sometimes he'd meet a guard, they'd pull a fast swap. Figured he had to be gettin' money from it.”

Sally drew in a low breath and sighed through her nose, “Was that all he was getting?”

“No. Got a few favors from that Watch patrol, had 'em lookin' the other way when he roughed up a girl or somethin'.”

A twitch clenched Sally's jaw. She glared angrily at the floor, hands planting themselves on her hips. When she finally looked up again, there was a perceptible tremor throughout the room.

“Cath,” Sally cocked her head, and the tattooed girl moved forward, “take Dunwall's Finest out back.”

There was a shout and a flurry of motion as one of the Watch officers went for his pistol. Before he could lift the gun, a flicker of light pierced the air before him, and a knife buried itself to the hilt in his throat. He gasped as the wound spurted blood, spraying the open floor and soaking into the carpet. The man fell, gurgling. Sally lowered her arm, calmly turning back to the boy. Her impassive expression had not changed.

The other guards lifted their hands in surrender. Sally's gang rounded them up and led them out a back door. The crowd parted warily, eyeing the thick pool of blood spreading from the dead officer. The room was utterly silent, and the noise from the party below echoed up. Sally took a step forward.

“I suppose you want a job,” her voice dripped venom.

The boy remained silent.

“I've got one for you,” Sally said, and the fury on her tongue could have sliced steel, “You go track down Mallory, and you bring me his head.”

For the first time since he'd arrived at the inn, the boy smiled. His features relaxed into a crooked grin. He bent down and retrieved the bag from its resting place on the floor. He tossed it toward Sally, and it landed with a wet thud at her feet.

“Done,” he said.

 

V.

In the early morning, the sounds of Dunwall Whiskey Distillery were just beginning to grow familiar and loud. The stills hummed on the main floor, the wood timbers creaked and settled in the cold. In the rear hallway, beside the wall of aging barrels, voices sounded and echoed into the office.

“He in there?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I gotta talk to him, is why,” came Crowley's rough answer.

There was a grumbled exchange in the hall before Crowley appeared in the doorway, shaking his head. He let out a low noise of frustration.

“These new boys don't know shit, boss,” he complained, “ _Why._ Why'd he think?”

The boss barely glanced at his friend, absorbed in a spread of papers over the large wooden desk. He pushed a few of them aside, pausing to trace a finger over a map of the district. He had been busy, in his newly acquired office, laying out plans and taking scribbled notes.

Crowley settled himself into a chair, pulling out a cigarette and reaching for a candle on the edge of the desk.

“How's the, uh...?” Crowley made a vague gesture to his own face before leaning over the flame to light his cigarette.

The boss shot him a dangerous look, but Crowley failed to notice.

Crowley knew better than to ask. He had already received one black eye for asking before, but he seemed undaunted. He smoked and observed his friend casually, a lazy smile stretching his lips.

“Guess you can't answer anyhow,” Crowley said, and the boss let out a growling noise that would have terrified anyone else. Crowley simply chuckled.

The boss raised a hand as his face began to throb. His fingers traced the uneven outline of his jaw, stroking the scarring flesh beneath his cheekbone. It had been a month. It would take longer for the bone to heal, if it ever did. He closed his eyes briefly as a wave of pain heated his face.

“Shit, don't hurt yourself,” Crowley said without a hint of sympathy.

With a deep groan, the boss grasped a piece of blank paper and a pencil. He scrawled a few letters across it and thrust it in Crowley's direction. His friend picked it up.

“ _Go fuck yourself,”_ Crowley read coolly, “I'll think about it, thanks boss.”

The boss suppressed a breath of laughter despite himself.

“Anyway, we got the block taken care of, everyone's been paid or scared. Quiet for now. You should hear people. Nobody's got a clue who we are or what's goin' on. Everyone's whisperin'. Kinda warms the heart.”

He handed back the piece of paper in anticipation of the boss's reply. The boss wrote out a short inquiry. Crowley read it, then raised an eyebrow.

“Are you kidding?” Crowley said pointedly, over-pronouncing the words, “They won't give us trouble, they're scared shitless of you. You're a scarred up mute with a cleaver, you're bad enough news on your own.”

The boss made a rude gesture with one hand before returning to his perusal of the map. He made a few notes in the margins, plotting a path through the back alleys. They would make their move soon, once they had enough help. With Crowley recruiting on the streets and the boss holding down the distillery, they were almost a respectable outfit.

“You got some idea about takin' the rest of the district?” Crowley said, watching his friend chart new routes on the map.

The boss wrote down a quick response.

“ _I got a plan,_ ” Crowley read, then snorted, “I heard that one before.”

The boss ignored him. They were close to victory now. He had little time for Crowley's criticism. He would see to it that the neighboring gangs either fell in line or fell at the end of a blade.

There were sounds of someone walking the hall outside, and soon a young man appeared in the metal door frame, leaning hesitantly into the office.

“Excuse me...” he said, faltering as both men inside turned their gazes to him, “I... I was told to come in here.”

“You lookin' for work?” Crowley heaved himself to his feet.

“Yeah,” the young man pulled the cap from his head and pressed it between his hands. The boss looked him over. The set of the newcomer's shoulders suggested he was used to hard labor. A factory worker, maybe, or an out-of-work whaler. A perfect candidate. He was staring at Crowley with a youthful nervousness. The boss looked down once more as Crowley set about his work.

“You ever killed anybody?” Crowley started out, taking a deep draw from his cigarette.

“Yes, sir.”

“You wanna do it again?”

“Whatever pays,” the young man replied.

“Ever worked for another gang?”

“No,” the visitor wrung his cap, “got roughed up by some. Part of why I wanted to join up here.”

Crowley crossed his arms, “This ain't a charity.”

The young man shook his head, “That's not what I mean. Word is your boss is putting the fear of the Void into people. If he's bringing the district to heel, I don't want to be working anywhere else.”

A flutter of amusement twitched the boss's lips. He flinched as his jaw froze. From the sound of the young man's voice, he had not yet realized that the boss was standing right in front of him.

Not missing a beat, Crowley asked smoothly, “What else are they sayin' about the boss?”

The floorboards cracked as the young man shifted his weight self-consciously, “The slack-jaw? They're saying he wiped out all the grifters around here. That he's gunning for the big names. That true?”

Crowley made a gruff noise, “I dunno, boss, is it true?”

The boss looked up, then stood to his full height. He turned his head slightly, broken jaw and open mouth displayed for the new recruit to see. As he watched the young man, he was rewarded by the flicker of terror across his face. Once he was satisfied that the recruit was earnest, he nodded slightly. Crowley waved a hand.

“Alright, go find Old Jamie and tell him Crowley sent you.”

The young man nodded, face pale, and disappeared around the corner.

“Well, boss,” Crowley turned to him, smiling, “how about that. You're gettin' downright famous.”

The boss, lost in thought, barely heard him. He was silent and still for so long that Crowley's smile slipped into a concerned frown. The boss returned his friend's stare, watching Crowley's grey eyes as they narrowed in confusion. Finally, the boss retrieved the piece of scrap paper and flipped it over, writing with a heavy hand. As he swirled the last letter, he pressed the pencil so hard it broke. He released a shuddering breath through his mouth, and his scars ached.

Cautiously, Crowley slid the paper across the desk and glanced down at it. There was only one word written across it. A name. Crowley stared at it for a long time.

“Okay,” he said under his breath, nodding slowly, “Slackjaw it is.”

 


End file.
